


Through A Glass, Darkly

by Saucery



Series: Twins [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Kinky Ending Anyway, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Twins, Amorality, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aunts & Uncles, Bad Touch, Badwrong, Blackmail, Competition, Consent Issues, Cross-Generation Relationship, Daddy Kink, Dark, Desire, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Evil, Evil Twins, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Father/Son Incest, Filthy, Forbidden Love, Fucked Up, I'm Sorry, Identity Porn, Incest, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, Love, Love/Hate, Lust, M/M, Mindfuck, Moral Bankruptcy, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Older Stilinski Twins, PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE IN THIS STORY IS A SICK PUPPY, Parent-Child Relationship, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Relationship Negotiation, Secret Relationship, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Shit So Twisted It'll Make Your Head Spin Like You're In The Exorcist, Sibling Rivalry, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Stilinski Twins, Threesome - M/M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheriff has an evil twin. A twin that wants to do bad, bad things to Stiles.</p><p>But what if the sheriff isn’t exactly the good twin, either?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through A Glass, Darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [auroreanrave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/gifts).



> For auroreanrave, who has the best (read: kinkiest) ideas.
> 
> I thought I was being all kinky when I mentioned two Stileses seducing the sheriff, but then auroreanrave had to mention **two sheriffs double-teaming Stiles** , and there went my brain. Whoosh. Right out the window.
> 
> My conscience was soon to follow.
> 
> As for the title, it’s from [the Corinthians](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Through_a_glass,_darkly_\(phrase\)). The Bible, man. It’s a goldmine of porn titles.
> 
> Maybe not what God intended, but still.

* * *

 

When Stiles unbolted the door to find Uncle Jack standing there in a leather trenchcoat that looked like it had been pilfered from the set of _Blade Runner_ or the costuming department of a John Wayne movie, he knew it was bad news.

Uncle Jack was bad news, in general. His weatherbeaten, stubbled countenance was as quietly menacing as usual, and there was that evil glint in his eyes, the glint that never quite went away.

It bothered Stiles, that his dad’s features could look like that. But then, given that they were living in Beacon Hills, the earthly equivalent of the Twilight Zone, it wasn’t surprising that John Stilinski had an actual evil twin. If this was an episode of Star Trek, said twin would be wearing conveniently telling eyeliner, but instead, all he was wearing was that vicious scar under his left cheekbone. And the spooky, jagged tattoo that curled over his collarbone and up his neck, like a serpent with teeth, sinking its fangs into his jugular.

“Whaddaya want?” Stiles demanded, not budging from the door.

“Now, now, Stiles,” Jack tsked. “Is that how you greet the uncle you haven’t seen in a year?”

“Two years,” Stiles corrected. “Either you’re awful at math or you just don’t give a damn. And, since you’re a secret criminal mastermind who routinely subtracts and divides millions of dollars in your head, it’s obvious you don’t give a damn.”

“Au contraire, nephew mine. I think about you often. And fondly.”

The manner in which he said “fondly” was vaguely disturbing, and Stiles knew why. He wasn’t an idiot. Uncle Jack was a sociopath who was into depravities beyond imagining, and he’d always been… interested… in Stiles. Creepily interested. Hell, he put Peter Hale’s creepiness to shame. Not that those bastards could experience shame, but—

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Jack enquired.

“I’d sooner roll out the red carpet for a vampire, thanks.”

“Speaking of vampires, how did it go with that coven, a couple of months ago?”

Stiles squinted at him suspiciously. “How’d you hear about that?”

“The walls have ears. Ears in my employ.”

“Uh-huh. Nice how you’re confessing to stalking us. Still not letting you in.”

“I’m here for a very good reason, Stiles.”

“Good? You? I don’t buy it.”

“Your life’s at risk. Apparently, a vengeful ex-apprentice of Deaton’s regards you as competition, and she’s determined to eliminate you.”

Well, shit. Stiles had been entertaining the delusion that he could go a single lousy semester without a super-villain gunning for him. And being the spark had been such fun, so far. No longer. “Deaton didn’t talk about it.”

“Deaton has no idea. Not yet.”

“And you care, why?”

Jack dropped a heavy hand on Stiles’s shoulder. It was like a rock. “You’re my blood,” Jack said, all gravelly and possessive and dead serious. “ _Mine_. Nobody touches you.”

“Except for you?” Stiles blurted, before he could help it, and went red. “Whatever,” he mumbled, and retreated indoors. “Come in.”

Jack had a duffel that he deposited on the floor, after clomping the mud off his ridiculous cowboy boots on the welcome mat. He surveyed the house with a keen gaze, taking in information that was probably catalogued according to threat level, tactical vulnerability, potential weaponization and strategic usefulness. Jack was a freak, that way.

A freak like Stiles.

Stiles hated having anything in common with the icky side of his gene-pool, however, so he led Jack into the kitchen and began making him a coffee.

“Your father’s at the station, is he?”

“Yeah. Night shift.”

“Lucky me.”

Stiles refused to dwell on _why_ Jack thought that was lucky—whether it was because dad would’ve kicked him out, anyway, or whether it was because he was alone with Stiles. “So, how’re your plans of world domination coming along?”

“Swimmingly.”

“You do realize Dad’s trying to arrest you, right?”

“He’s been trying to get dirt on me for three decades,” Jack said, dismissively. “He hasn’t succeeded.”

“That’s because you’re the Moriarty to his Lestrade.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Jack smirked. “Wasn’t it?”

That Jack consistently got Stiles’s references was upsetting. Dad had no clue about half the stuff Stiles said, these days. “How’re you gonna stop this ex-student of Deaton’s?”

“By killing her.”

“By—” Stiles plonked the mug of coffee on the kitchen table, where Jack was sitting. “That’s illegal.”

“Not if she has no legal identity, and not if she isn’t human.”

“Aren’t emissaries human?”

“They’re supposed to be. But she made a deal with a demon. To become more powerful than an emissary should be. Ask Deaton about it; that’s why he disowned her and quit training her. Power was too dear to her.”

“Like it is to you.”

“Power isn’t as dear to me as you are.”

“That’s why you’ve been absent for most of my childhood, then?” Stiles snapped, before remembering that he was happy about that. “You only show up when somebody’s out to kill me.”

“John essentially banished me from your sweet lil’ family unit,” Jack said, his voice going cool and poisonous, like it did when he was truly angry. “He won’t tolerate me within a hundred feet of you unless I have a… fitting excuse.”

“Excuse?” Stiles said, incredulously. “Me potentially dying is an _excuse?_ What if this ‘apprentice’ of Deaton’s is just a hired mercenary you’re sending after me so you can show up like some kinda hero, rescue me and claim a victor’s kiss?”

Jack’s eyes went all wide and guileless. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“There’s not much you wouldn’t do.”

“I wouldn’t put you in danger.” Jack got up, and Stiles shrank away from him. “You know that. You have to know that.”

“Don’t…” Stiles’s words got tangled up inside him, because Jack scared him. Honestly scared him. Not many folks did, but Jack did. Maybe it was because Stiles understood him, and because, when Jack was around, he felt understood. And he was terrified of being understood. Terrified that Jack would see into his twisty, fucked up, Machiavellian mind and _get_ him.

Like Jack was getting him, now.

“Don’t what?” Jack said, softly. His knuckles came up to brush Stiles’s face, gently, so gently that Stiles’s eyelids fluttered. Those knuckles seemed massive, brutish despite their carefulness, although Stiles knew, objectively, that they were the same size as Dad’s.

But they weren’t Dad’s. And that—

That was a relief, wasn’t it?

“John always did get all the nice things,” Jack said, musingly, his knuckles drifting down to Stiles’s throat. Stiles shivered. “That lovely wife of his. A beautiful son. A faithful, devoted, _loving_ son. Does he know how loving you are, Stiles? Or have you been hiding that from him, too?”

Stiles tensed, alarmed. “I’m not like you.”

“Yes, you are. That’s why you avoid me so desperately, nephew. You’re a truer mirror of me than my twin is, and you’d rather not be reminded of that. You’d rather not be reminded of the fact that we share the disease of stupid, sick, unrequited love.”

“You’re not capable of love.”

“Aren’t I? Haven’t I protected you, Stiles? Albeit from a distance? Haven’t I watched over you, year after year, as conscientiously as you’ve watched over my bumbling, foolish, alcoholic brother?”

“You’re blackmailing me.” Stiles’s breaths were speeding up, equal parts horror and… and something else. Something that superimposed Dad’s smile over Jack’s sharklike sneer. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll tell him about me if I don’t comply with your wishes?”

“Oh, my _wishes_.” Jack sighed wistfully. “How could you even begin granting them? Is it that I want you on your knees? No, not only that. Is it that I want you to nod off to sleep on my lap, as trustingly as you did when you were younger? No, not only that. Is it that I want it to be my name that you whisper when you masturbate? No, not only that. Is it that I want to be so tender with you that you cry, that you beg me to be cruel?”

Stiles’s pulse was pounding, rabbit-quick and petrified. His skin was warming up, and his dick was twitching incriminatingly in his jeans, but that wasn’t because of Jack. It was because he was picturing Jack’s lurid fantasies, but with someone different in the starring role. Not Jack.

“You’re so delightfully transparent. To me, if not to other people. You’re a deceptive, furtive creature, a night-fish haunting the shallows in the hopes that you’ll be mistaken for your more harmless brethren. Tell me, how is Scott?”

Stiles wasn’t thrown by the non-sequitur. Jack’s knuckles were still on him, skating lightly down his arm, raising goosebumps. “He’s doing fine.”

“With you plotting the demise of his enemies, of course he is.”

“Get away from me.” The sentence cracked in the middle, and Stiles despised himself for it, for revealing his weakness for free. If he’d had to reveal it, he should’ve traded it for an advantage of his own.

“Do you really mean that? Consider it with that marvelous, clockwork brain of yours. Or with that filthy, fractured heart. I can give you a facsimile of what you need. A facsimile so authentic, it’ll surpass what you’ll get elsewhere. No adolescent crush, no make-out session with a schoolgirl will compare to what I can offer.”

“You’re not offering. You’re threatening.”

“Ah, you noticed.”

Stiles shut his eyes. Distanced his rationality from the mindless urging of his hormones, from the mindless terror of his emotions. And considered it, like Jack had advised.

It all fell into place. Chess-piece after chess-piece. Move and counter-move. And Stiles’s fear subsided, just like that.

In spite of the blackmail angle, Stiles could figure out that the blackmail was an escape route in and of itself, a pit Jack was generously digging for him to bury his desire in, to blame Jack for everything and stay blameless, himself.

This was Jack being kind.

Because there was one truth among Jack’s lies.

He wouldn’t endanger Stiles.

He wouldn’t _force_ …

If Stiles said no, Jack would leave, as graciously as he was able, and Deaton’s former apprentice would be discovered a few days later, reduced to a sticky splatter of gore in a local alley. Stiles’s uncle would vanish into the mists for another month, another year, until Stiles had to be saved anew.

They’d return to normal. Or what was normal for them. Dad would carry on hating Jack and loving Stiles, like brothers hated brothers, like fathers loved sons. That would be it. That would be all.

And it would never be enough.

When Stiles opened his eyes, he found Jack studying him, like an artist might study a painting he was in the midst of composing. It was unnerving. It was precisely what Stiles required. Jack was a walking warning sign, the antithesis of Dad. He was unsafe where Dad was safe, but Dad was too safe for Stiles, wasn’t he? A shelter in the storm. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to tear it down.

But he could let Jack tear _him_ down. He wasn’t anybody’s shelter. Not even Dad’s, or Dad wouldn’t still be drinking like he did. Like his bourbon was all that was keeping him sane.

“What…” Stiles glanced aside, because he couldn’t look at Jack for this, for the negotiation of what they were about to do, like Stiles negotiated curfews and allowances with Dad. “You mentioned a wish-list. Where should I start?”

Jack inhaled sharply, and went silent. Absolutely, totally silent, for a whole minute, which was so unlike him that Stiles had to look at him, after all.

And Jack was—

Jack was both intent and wild, focused and crazed. A series of contradictions. It was as though there was a beast trapped in him, struggling to surface, a lycanthrope of his making. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his tattoo rippling. Eventually, strangled and strange, he said: “Let’s start by you calling me ‘Uncle.’”

_What the fuck?_ Stiles would have said, but he was going to be asking Jack to call him ‘son,’ so fair was fair. “Uncle,” he said, and allowed it to emerge shaky and hesitant, because Jack was the type of predator who was excited by vulnerability, and besides, Stiles didn’t have the composure to fake not being vulnerable.

Jack swayed closer, as if drunk. His lips grazed Stiles’s ear. “Again.” 

“Un—” Stiles gasped, because Jack was suckling his earlobe, hot and wet and startling. “Uncle, _please_.”

Jack groaned.

And the front door creaked ajar.

In a flash, Jack was back in his chair, sipping his congealing coffee, making a convincing moue of disgust at the sugar Stiles had heaped into it, because Dad liked his coffee sugary.

“Stiles?” Dad yelled, and Stiles whipped around, panting, facing the sink so that his hard-on was pressed against the counter, concealed under its ledge. “Whose goddamn boots are these?”

“Uncle Jack’s,” Stiles yelled in reply, turning on the tap with trembling fingers and pretending to do the dishes.

Dad cursed, stomping down the corridor and into the kitchen, glare already ramped up to the max when he got there.

“You,” Dad said to Jack, accusingly, looming in the archway like an avenging angel, all broad shoulders and moral indignation. He might as well have been wielding a flaming sword. “What are you doing here?”

“Guarding your offspring,” Jack drawled, “like you’re failing to do.”

“Get out.”

“What, no hug?”

“You’re worried about Stiles? Then send me a postcard. Or text me.”

“You don’t answer my texts.”

“I can read them. Get. Out.”

“What if I’m the only solution to your latest problem? A problem that you, gormless as you are, have remained ignorant of?”

“Listen to him, Dad,” Stiles said, scrubbing a frypan listlessly, like that was what he’d been doing for the past twenty minutes.

“You… What did he say to you?”

Why was Dad sounding so panicky? “Uh, that Dr. Deaton’s Qui-Gon Jinn and his old apprentice betrayed him and became a Sith?”

“What?”

“It’s a Star Wars reference,” Jack said, blandly. “And a poor reference, at that. Does that make you Luke, Stiles? Because it’d make your dad Darth Vader, and that’s about as inaccurate a casting as possible.”

“Shaddap,” Stiles groused, thankful that his arousal had faded. “Like you could do better.”

Crap. They were bantering. Sort of. Dad wouldn’t like that. He didn’t like Stiles having conversations with Jack, period.

Yep, Dad was frowning at them.

“Stiles,” he said, slowly, succinctly, “go to bed.”

“But the dishes—”

“Go. To. Bed.”

“First time you’ve ever told me _not_ to do the dishes.”

“What a tyrannical father you are,” Jack remarked, and Dad scowled.

“At least I am a father.”

“Ouch. Rubbing salt in the wound that is my bachelorhood? At least _I_ get laid.”

Stiles dallied by the sink, fascinated by their interaction, like he invariably was. It was weird, how a pair of physically identical men could be so distinct. And get on each other’s nerves so much.

“Stiles,” Dad repeated, sternly. “Up.”

Stiles switched off the tap and trudged upstairs, to his room, where he toed off his sneakers and crawled into bed. Homework could wait. He was exhausted by what had happened, and he had to sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday, anyhow. Plenty of leeway to finish his essay on male circumcision. He wondered how long it’d take Coach Finstock—and the rest of the teaching staff—to recognize that he was trolling them.

But neither exhaustion nor pranks gave him a reprieve from his perversion. Dad’s sternness and Jack’s lust mingled in his dreams, which were seething and turbulent, a confusion of knuckles and uniforms and badges and orders.

It almost didn’t matter who was who.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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